


Solace and Sorrow

by silverducks



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverducks/pseuds/silverducks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hope is like the Dandelion. It is a persistent weed, difficult to kill even through the darkest and most painful of times. A story about how Peeta and Katniss grow back together, end of Mockingjay, pre epilogue. Contains spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_A/N This story contains spoilers for all three of the Hunger Game books._   
  
_I started to read the Hunger Games books about 1 ½ months ago and I absolutely loved them! Love the new film too and I just can’t stop thinking about what happens at the end of Mockingjay. So here’s my take on how Katniss and Peeta grow back together at the end of Mockingjay. It will probably be a longish story, so I hope you continue to read. More chapters will be on their way soon._

** Prologue **

Hope is like the Dandelion.  
It’s a persistent weed, difficult to kill even through the darkest and most painful of times  
Its roots dig in deep, bound so tightly they’re impossible to tear asunder  
The seeds travel far, ever spreading and seeking new land to lay claim to

But this plant aims to kill  
It’s a double edged sword, providing both solace and sorrow to those who may find it  
It purges and destroys that which competes against it as it seeks to flourish  
Its survival is at the expense of others and its neighbours will seek its mercy

Yet hope is like the dandelion  
It’s also a promise of new life, a first sign of spring after the long and bitter winter  
Its leaves and bright yellow flowers provide food and shelter to those who are seeking  
Its colour and flavour bringing warmth and kindness to those who know how to gather

And so like the dandelion  
Its presence is both a blessing and a curse, a sign of new life and also destruction.  
And one cannot live without hope, without the promise of spring following winter  
And hope, once it takes seed, it is nearly impossible to destroy.  
No matter how hard one may try to oppress it.

_(Written by me, inspired by the ending of Mockingjay)_


	2. Hope is Like the Dandelion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope is like the Dandelion.
> 
> It's a persistent weed, difficult to kill even through the darkest and most painful of times.

A/N - The paragraph in italics at the start of the story is taken from Mockingjay, by Suzanne Collins, page 451. I have chosen to use this paragraph as the start of my story as it’s the last moment we see Peeta and Katniss interacting in real time. After that, it is quite vague on just how they grow back together, so here’s my version of events. It will probably be a longish story, so I hope you continue to read. More chapters will be on their way soon.

\----------------------

_In the morning, Buttercup sits stoically as I clean the cuts, but digging the thorn from his paw brings on a round of those kitten mews. We both end up crying again, only this time we comfort each other. On the strength of this, I open the letter Haymitch gave me from my mother, dial the phone number and weep with her as well. Peeta, bearing a warm loaf of bread, shows up with Greasy Sae. She makes us breakfast and I feed my bacon to Buttercup._

I keep the bread for myself. I don’t want to appear rude and feed the bread Peeta has baked for us to the cat. Buttercup still looks at it mournfully though, wanting more sustenance than the meagre scrap of bacon. He starts wailing and for a moment I feel the tears prickling again at my eyes, suddenly feeling woefully inadequate at providing for those I love once again. But then Buttercup suddenly darts off, under the table. As my eyes follow, I see a flash of bacon as it disappears from paint stained fingers.

I look up suddenly and catch Peeta’s eyes, see his lips curling into a small smile. I look quickly away, focusing on my plate.

I know I should say something, thank the boy with the bread before the debts I owe him begin building up again, so high I start sinking under the weight. But the words catch in my throat, like they did yesterday when I saw him planting the primrose bushes. A sharp flare of guilt twists my stomach. I haven’t said a word to him since then, not even when he came in this morning, presenting the fresh warm loaf, or when he took Greasy Sae’s invitation and sat down opposite me, politely ignoring the tears that were still drying on my cheeks.

The longer the silence lasts between us, the harder it is to break. I can feel Peeta’s eyes watching me and I keep mine down. I busy myself with eating, stuffing a large slice of the bread in my mouth. My stomach growls in appreciation and I eat more, letting the warm, rich bread slide down my throat, savouring the taste.

“Your favourite bread is buns, with cheese on. Real or not real?”

I’m not sure what startles me the most, the sudden sound of Peeta’s voice in the disquiet of the kitchen, or the question itself. “Real.” I say, looking up, then away, quickly. He remembers and I’m not quite sure why it surprises me, for it would be one of the few memories the Capitol was unable to touch. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to consider the alternative, the possibility that the Peeta who sits before me is becoming the old Peeta again, the real Peeta. I can’t afford to think like that, to believe he may still return to me. Not when the memories start to invade, of how things were before, when Peeta would bring us fresh bread every day, sometimes staying to share it with us; me, my mother and Prim. I try to focus on my food again, but Peeta makes it impossible to even pretend to forget he’s there.

“I thought so. I wanted to make you some, but I couldn’t find any cheese.”

He sounds sad as he speaks, guilty, and the knife twists deeper in my gut. I nod, unable to tell him that it doesn’t matter anyway. Even this plain bread tastes like the finest food I’ve eaten in weeks. Has it really been that long? Time is a concept I find difficult to hold onto now. It slips between my fingers like the sand on the beach in the Quarter Quell. I think it’s been several days since I returned to District 12, maybe a week. I have no idea what sort of food I was given during my confinement. Even less of an idea how long it lasted.

“I asked them to send me some; hopefully it will be here soon.”

I nod, again unable to take part in Peeta’s small talk; words never were a skill of mine.

Peeta smiles, but I keep my eyes down. He’s quiet for a while and I’m happy for the silence. He waits until I have another mouthful of warm bread before he continues. “I’ll bring you some, as soon as I can.”

I choke on the food, the words startling me. No, not the words, the implication. That Peeta will be here again, that he wishes to please me, maybe even rekindle our friendship. I swallow slowly, not sure what to say. All I manage is a quiet, “Thanks.” The rest of the words stay trapped in my head. What can I say anyway? That I don’t want him to come to visit any more? That I don’t want any of his fresh bread coated in cheese? I’m sure even the version of Peeta sat before me would sense the lies. And what of the truth? How can I tell him that he owes me nothing, that it is me who will be forever in his debt? That he’s better off not even trying, to carrying on hating me or whatever it is he feels for me now.

He seems to read my thoughts though, or perhaps we’re more in tune than I’d like to admit. “No point wasting the bread,” he says. “It’s part of my therapy.”

“Your therapy?” I ask, surprising myself at the annoyance in my voice. No one told me Peeta had started baking again. There’s guilt there too, that the significance of the bread sitting between us hadn’t even occurred to me until now. 

“Yes, in the Capitol, when I was recovered enough. Baking and painting.”

Not in district 13 though, I think, they wouldn’t want to waste their precious resources.

“They sent me here with some supplies,” Peeta continues. “No cheese though.” He smiles and I think he meant it to be reassuring. It isn’t. It twists the knife in deeper, upwards, piercing my heart. The words make me feel selfish. How can I sit here wallowing in my own self-pity when Peeta simply wants to help heal us both?

My plate is empty now, my silence not as easily concealed. Peeta reaches for the bread knife, but I hold my hand over the remaining loaf, shaking my head. The bread is starting to weigh heavily in my stomach. It’s not used to such rich, stodgy food.

We sit in silence for a few moments more, but it feels heavier this time, restless. I’m not surprised when Peeta gets up, collects our plates and piles them in the sink. I watch him. I want to say something when he starts to turn the taps. It’s not right; he shouldn’t be here, playing domestics, looking after me.

It’s only when he starts to leave that words become unstuck and tumble from my mouth. “Where are you going?” My voice is accusatory and I hate myself for it. I have no right to ask that and Peeta has no obligation to answer.

He does though. Of course he does, “To check on the primroses, the ones I planted yesterday.”

Of all the things, he had to mention that. I want to hate him now too, but that’s always been difficult. Instead I stand up quickly, surprising us both when I say, “I’ll come too.”

He waits by the door as I approach, allows me to walk past him and out into the bright sunlight. It hurts my eyes, but the fresh air tastes good, if I ignore the stench of ash and smoke and death that still lingers. Then again, maybe that’s just my imagination.

Peeta follows me out, comes to walk by my side. A respectable distance, but I can sense him far too strongly; feel the movement of his hand close to mine. I feel my fingers clench with the effort of resisting reaching for his. It wouldn’t be fair, for either of us. I’m almost afraid he may still recoil at my touch.

The primroses lie in a small straight line along the side of the house, underneath the window. The rich, dark earth is packed neatly around them. I reach towards the nearest bush and examine the buds starting to form. They will soon be ready to bloom, each bud becoming a single pale yellow primrose, one of the first signs of spring. An overpowering instinct to protect these bushes fills me. I am determined to keep them alive. Already they look healthy, despite their move from the woods. Only a gentle, steady hand could keep their perfection intact through such a trial. I suddenly remember Peeta behind me. He’s standing a few feet away, keeping his distance, or perhaps giving me space. I try to thank him, for the gift and purpose he has given me, but the words choke in my throat once more. I find myself clutching tighter to the buds, crushing them. I release my hand quickly, but it’s too late. The buds are damaged and these few will never live to flower and show the world their beauty.

I don’t realise I’m crying until I feel a tear on my cheek. I wipe it away quickly, but more take their place.

“Katniss?” Peeta’s gentle voice asks behind me.

I don’t want to cry, not in front of Peeta and the primroses. It’s not his sorrow to bear. I stand up straighter, my muscles taut.

“Katniss?” Peeta asks again, nearer this time. The sound of his slow, tentative movements reminds me of all the times I’ve approached a wounded animal.

My tears are flowing faster now. I watch them fall on the hard earth and leave tracks as they flow towards the primroses. I don’t want to look at the bushes any more. I slowly turn around, towards him, my eyes on the ground, avoiding his. From the corner of my eye I see him raise his hand, as if reaching out to me, but then he quickly drops it. I look up then, meet his eyes. They’re concerned, but uncertain too. Their deep blueness is my undoing. I reach towards him, my arms wrapping around his neck. I rest my head on his shoulder and take a deep, shaky breath. Peeta is completely still for a moment, tense. Maybe I have gone too far, brought back a false memory from his imprisonment. It’s certainly a selfish gesture on my part, taking comfort when he has no obligation to give. I’m about to drop my arms and pull back when Peeta suddenly shudders. A moment later his arms encircle my back.

I pull him closer and burrow my head against his shoulder, listening to the strong pulse in his neck. The tears are flowing freely now, soaking into his t-shirt. I didn’t think I had any tears left within me to shed. I cry for Prim, for my failure to protect her when I always promised I would. I cry for the future she’ll never know and emptiness she leaves behind. I cry for my mother and Gale, so far away and lost to me. I cry for Finnick and Cinna. For Boggs, Mitchell, Jackson... I squeeze my eyes shut tight, but I cannot escape the faces of those who died to save me. No, not to save me. They died to save the Mockingjay, the symbol of the rebellion, the hope of a better world. Now here I am, their great Mockingjay, reduced to this. More faces join the crowd. I cry for Madge, for Peeta’s father, for my entire district destroyed because of me. I cry for Rue, kind, caring, innocent Rue, yet another I failed to save. The faces of the other tributes appear too, all those who died in the arenas, allowing me and Peeta to live. My tears fall and fall, great wrecking sobs now, ripped from my heart.

Peeta’s arms tighten around me, his hands gently stroke my back. I can feel his breath, warm against my neck and it helps soothe me. His arms are so warm, so steady and so familiar. The strong arms that warded off my nightmares, that held me close in the arena.

Finally, I let myself cry for Peeta. He’s more damaged than even I am. I cry for what they did to him, all because of me. For how they tortured him, changed him, twisted his memories and his mind into something he’s not.

“Are you the real Peeta?” I whisper against his collar bone.

“Yes.” Peeta whispers back. “For now.”

I suddenly feel cold. I clutch him tighter, seeking his warmth. I don’t want to let go. But my sobs are receding now, my eyes finally dry.

I repeat his words in my head. He feels so real, so strong and solid against me that it’s easy to hope he’ll stay. Already my heart feels lighter. But I cannot afford to hope, not yet. Not when everything else I love has been taken away from me. I pull away, feel his arms slip down my sides. It feels cold outside now, though the sun is high in the sky. It must be near noon.

I keep my eyes to the ground, avoiding the harsh sunlight. Peeta’s eyes still watch me. I shift on my feet. I consider taking him to the woods, to the lake, but then I remember the bodies piled high in their mass graves in the meadow. I shudder in the cold and decide it’s too far for us to go now.

“Have you seen Haymitch yet?” I ask instead.

Peeta shakes his head. When he makes no further comment, I begin walking in the direction of Haymitch’s house. I’ve not seen him since arriving in District 12 either and it seems easier to both go together. I hear Peeta’s footsteps behind me and I pause. When Peeta reaches me, I begin walking again. My hand reaches out for his and grips tightly. A deep breath rushes out from my lungs when he doesn’t pull away.

When we reach his house, we find the kitchen door unlocked and Haymitch sitting at the table, a half empty bottle before him and a half empty glass in his hands. His head has fallen backwards, eyes closed and mouth open, snoring. He’s either drunk, or still hung-over, I can’t tell which. I’m not surprised though, what else is there to do all day in District 12?

He jerks awake as we enter, sloshing liquid across himself. He glares at us and puts his glass down noisily on the wooden table. I notice as his eyes focus on my fingers entwined with Peeta’s. I suddenly drop Peeta’s hand and glare back at Haymitch.

“You’re back then.” Haymitch doesn’t sound surprised to see Peeta and the look that passes between them annoys me. They seem to have come to some sort of understanding in the Capitol and I’m sure it involves me.

“Yes, I came back yesterday.” Peeta notices how I’m watching him and Haymitch and he looks guilty for a moment. He quickly turns around and starts opening cupboards. He pulls out a few mugs, tea and fills the kettle. I watch; more surprised that Peeta knows where to look than everything still being there. Other than the ash and dust that has shrouded the Victors Village, everything has remained untouched since the bombings.

“And nice to see you again, sweetheart.” Haymitch starts to pour himself another glass, but as his eyes are watching me, a fair amount spills across the wood.

I scowl at Haymitch as I sit down, his accusation not lost on me. It’s not fair anyway; he was meant to come and visit me.

“Still, better late than never.” Haymitch continues and glances over at Peeta by the sink. I deepen my scowl, not liking the implication, however true it may be.

The bottle sits on the table between us and I’m tempted to reach out and take a swig of whatever the amber liquid is. Let the alcohol chase away the guilt for a while. I remember too clearly what happened when I last tried some of Haymitch’s liquor though, how the painful memories only came back stronger. And I don’t want to risk any berating from Peeta. Instead I drink the tea he places before me and wonder if he would have said anything now, anyway.

“And how are you finding being back in the lovely District 12?” Haymitch asks.

“Quiet,” Peeta answers as he sits down, ignoring the sarcasm in Haymitch’s voice. “I’ve seen pictures and people told me what to expect, but… it’s still so strange… everything gone, empty…” Then, he quickly adds, “But it’s better than still being in the Capitol.”

They both glance across at me and my annoyance grows again. I glare at my tea, feeling defensive. I want to tell them it’s not my fault we’re all stuck here, but I don’t like to lie. I gulp my tea too quickly and hide my wince as it burns my mouth.

I remain quiet for most of the afternoon, tuning in and out of the forced conversation, time slipping away again. Peeta does a lot of the talking, answering Haymitch’s impersonal questions about the Capitol. There’s little to say though, and many lapses into long silences, broken by the chink of glass and china. Haymitch starts to snore again at some point, but still Peeta and I remain. I’m not sure where else we could go; my own house suddenly feels too small and the outside too big for just the two of us. And at least here, there are Haymitch’s snores to keep us company and Peeta has more of a reason to stay.

As the afternoon wears on though, the three of us sitting here begins to remind me too strongly of how things were before the Quarter Quell was announced. It unsettles me and I push the mug still resting in my hands away. The scrape of the china on wood awakes Haymitch with a start and draws Peeta’s attention. They look at me, concerned. I stand up to leave, unable to face this strange reunion from the past any more.

“Don’t fancy a drink then, sweetheart?” Haymitch asks, his voice slurring now as he pours himself another glass.

I feel Peeta’s eyes on me and I’m tempted to say yes, see what reaction I get. “No,” I say. Peeta’s reaction will no doubt only disappoint or annoy me.

Haymitch offers the bottle to Peeta, but he shakes his head and stands up, following me.

It’s dark when we step outside, the nights still drawing in early. I deliberately don’t look at the primrose bushes when we pass. I don’t hold Peeta’s hand this time, either.

The kitchen lights are on when we reach my house and for a moment I almost expect to find Prim and my mother waiting for me. The day has been filled with too many relived memories and I have to chase the ghosts of the past away. Remind myself they will never be here to return to again.

Greasy Sae must have left the light on and through the glass windows I can see food on the table; the remaining bread and two bowls. Peeta shifts behind me, a good few feet away. I should say goodnight. Put another ghost to rest. Already it is hard to stop hoping that Peeta has returned to me. And I cannot afford to hope for that, because then there’s the chance his love for me could return again, too. And I don’t deserve that. Peeta is better off without it, anyway.

I look into the distance and see the dark, empty houses standing between mine and his. I doubt he has anyone looking after him. There won’t be any food waiting at his table. And I am not ready to be alone just yet.

I don’t know what to say, so I enter the kitchen without a word. When Peeta does not follow, I pull out a chair at the table. I sit down in the one opposite and pick up a spoon by the bowls. The stew is still warm and surprisingly tasty. After a few moments, Peeta comes in and sits down. We eat in silence for a while, dipping the remaining bread into the rich stew. The silence starts to grow heavy between us again, but I don’t know how to break it or whether I even should.

“This stew is good. I wonder what meat it is.”

Peeta’s words startle me and without thinking, I answer back, “I somehow doubt it’s squirrel.”

“Shame,” Peeta replies. “Squirrel stew was always my favourite. And my father’s”

I look up suddenly at Peeta’s words. Memories of the past; hunting in the woods, shooting squirrels and swapping them for the warm, rich bread of the bakery flood back. He seems lost in his own memories too, his eyes unfocused, looking into the distance. I watch his hand start to clench around his spoon, the knuckles turning white. For a moment I think he is caught in another hijacked memory. I glance at the bread knife on the table between us, decide to reach for it. But then his eyes focus on reality again and his grip on the metal releases. A few moments later he speaks, “I think that was the only reason my mother allowed him to swap the bread for your squirrels.

I’m surprised Peeta even remembers my squirrels and I feel like I should say something. “Your father always gave me a good price.”

“I know.” Peeta smiles at me, warm and sweet, like he did in the Capitol, before the Games. I look down suddenly and focus on finishing the stew. I grip my spoon tightly. When Peeta stands up and clears the dishes before leaving, I don’t ask him to stay.

“Goodnight, Katniss,” he calls from the door and I nod in return. “I’ll try and find some cheese for you.” Then, with a small wink, he’s gone.

I manage to not smile until he is well out of sight. Then I feel it spread across my face, the muscles almost painful from their lack of use. The smile fades quickly though. It’s too quiet now, when before just Greasy Sae and her granddaughter felt like a crowd.

How long I sit there after Peeta left, I do not know. I stare at the wooden table and trace my fingers along the few dints in the surface. When I feel my muscles stiffen and tiredness overcome me, I make myself move. I manage to walk as far as the sofa. I pull the old shawl across my body and let my eyes close. My healing body is tired from the events of the day, but it is a while before any sleep finds me. Images from today run through my mind like a television show, mixing with old memories churned up from the past and haunted by the ghosts which fill them. As sleep beckons, Peeta’s face becomes prominent in too many of them. I see him smiling, winking at me. Feel his warm arms wrapping around me and his fingers enclosed in mine. The last thought I am aware of is that at least Peeta doesn’t hate me any more.

 -----------------------------------

_Thanks a lot for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it and I’d love to know what you think. More chapters will be on their way soon._


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